Sigyn Holmes Laufeyson submitted a prompt but then decided to write it themselves so go check it out! I'm sure it will be fantastic!
This is the last half of the story (because I can never write things in order) that I was going to submit but with a few tweaks so that it does not copy her idea. Thanks for the inspiration, Sigyn Holmes Laufeyson!
Sorry the updates have slowed down, I'm working lots at a restaurant and by the time I get home I'm soaked in dishwater and have just enough energy to play the new Arkham game and stare blankly at the wall! Hopefully this story is worth the wait! (honestly I'm worried it ended up too much like a bad spy movie)
The street was draped lightly in a gray fog. The detective could barely see his feet under the mist, but when his attackers approached the fog did nothing to muffle the sound of their footsteps.
The first man thought he could catch Sherlock unaware by attacking him from behind, and trying to strangle him with a strong bit of cord. Sherlock easily flipped him, and broke his arm with a well placed stomp. The next man was more cautious and stayed back while using the reach his knife provided. Sherlock used the cord his first attacker had so graciously provided to ensnare the knife and pull it from his attacker's hands. Then he buried it in the attacker's leg in a place that provided a non-lethal handicap. The other two men were unarmed, and their brute strength was no match for Sherlock's disciplined fighting technique. They went down easily, and Sherlock was victorious.
He bent down and grabbed the man he'd stabbed by the neck.
"Où est Delphine?" He growled, and the man spat in his face. Sherlock rubbed at his face with his sleeve and tightened his grip, lifting the man into the air. "Où est Delphine?" He repeated. "Je ne suis pas un homme patient."
"Je ne parle pas a vous!" The thug grunted. Sherlock was so busy interrogating him he didn't notice the laser that had appeared on the back of his head.
A gunshot rang out and Sherlock turned around just in time to see the sniper fall from the roof, dead from a shot to the head. Sherlock slammed his captive's face into his fist to keep him unconscious long enough for him to deal with the current threat.
"Qui est là?" He shouted into the blackness. There was no answer. "Qui est là?" He shouted again.
"You know I don't speak French, Sherlock." A man appeared on the nearby rooftop, his features covered by the dark. Even so, Sherlock thought he remembered that voice.
"Who's there?" He repeated in English.
"Your brother sent me." From the darkness stepped John Watson. "He said you were in over your head, which is nothing new if you ask me."
His hair is going gray. Sherlock thought, and then a hand darted to his own hair unconsciously as he wondered if maybe his hair was going gray too. It was, but neither man was old enough for it to be quite noticeable yet. Sherlock would notice though, he would have noticed his own hair if he had access to a mirror recently. It had been a long time since he'd bothered with one, which explained the coarse stubble on his face.
"John." He croaked, feeling like he'd just swallowed his heart. John made his way down the fire escape, and while Sherlock awaited his arrival he lit a cigarette and lifted it to his lips. On the first puff he let out a ragged cough and his whole body shook.
"Gone and given yourself lung cancer while you were away?" John asked a bit angrily, though Sherlock could hear worry under the rage.
"Nothing so dramatic." He tried to stop coughing. "Bronchitis. Breathing is boring anyway."
"Smoking is going to kill you faster than any criminal mastermind." John replied disapprovingly. Sherlock gave him a irritated look and took a long and deliberate drag. "Arsehole." John spat.
"Moron." Sherlock called back.
"Dickface." John replied.
"Imbecile." Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Both men stood in silence for a few seconds before they both broke down in laughter. Sherlock would later pretend it was John that made the first move into a hug but really it was him who rushed forward and wrapped John into a rib bruising embrace.
Once the hug ended, John re-assumed his strict face. "The constant smoking, the thin frame...you're clearly not eating nor sleeping. Traveling all over the world at the drop of a hat...you're killing yourself, aren't you?" He asked, taking a soldier's tone of voice.
"I'm fine, it's just cold out here." Sherlock replied, coughing lightly again.
"Yeah, the cold. That's what's causing the tar to fly from your lungs." John rolled his eyes. "And the bones to stick out so far."
"You create a disgusting picture." Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "We can't stay out here, they might return, and I have to interrogate him to learn more about his leader. Let's go back to my flat."
His "flat" turned out to be an abandoned building, with boarded up windows that had openings just large enough to let in the cold wind and various large rodents. John shook his head at the sight but helped Sherlock carry the thug up the stairs anyway.
The room Sherlock inhabited was covered in scientific equipment and various drug paraphernalia. On the far opposing wall were numerous photographs and news articles with red yarn tacked about drawing connections.
"Cocaine, again?" John asked, eyeing a needle.
"Sedatives." Sherlock explained, busy tying up their prisoner to the one chair in the room.
"Why?" John's eyebrows shot way up in surprise.
"I find myself unable to sleep without some sort of powerful chemical to induce it." Sherlock finished tying the hostage up and straightened himself. "How is Mary?" He asked casually, and John's face grew stony.
"Dead. Four years now."
Sherlock turned around, his face genuinely shocked and sad. "I...I am sorry. She was a good woman."
"She was." John agreed.
"May I ask how?" Sherlock pursed his lips and John shrugged.
"She still had enemies. One of them made it into the building and had our neighbor as a hostage. She gave herself up." He looked sadly at his feet.
"She was a hero, John." Sherlock reached out to his friend but then withdrew his hand. "I should have been there for you."
"America, Costa Rica, Russia, Ukraine, Brazil and now Paris, France...seems to me you've been everywhere but London." John gave a bitter laugh. "Are you running away from something?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Are you referring to something specific?" The memory rushed back without warning. John had come to him not three days after Mary's miscarriage. He'd been without sleep or food, he'd been miserable and furious and he'd had to pull Sherlock out of some drug den. That's how addicts were...selfish. They never thought about how other's lives were affected by them. That's why Sherlock confessed his love on the spot, even though he knew John was still mourning his unborn daughter.
"Sherlock, you had your chance. I told you I loved you, you said you could never feel that way about me."
"I was about to face off against Moriarty I thought I had to fake my death...besides I never thought...you could be happy with me."
"That's kind of what I told you I wanted. To be with you. I'm with Mary now."
"I know..."
"So then why confess? Did the cocaine destroy your brain? Did you think I'd leave my wife for an old flame that turned me down?"
"John...just go back to her. I'm sorry. Just go."
"I move around a lot because it keeps me from making attachments. Friends or enemies." Sherlock explained quickly before John could answer his previous question.
"Like all the people back in London that don't know if you're dead or alive?" John glared. "Mrs. Hudson has your flat just how you left it. Molly asks me every time you see me, Lestrade has a folder dedicated to cases he's saving for you."
"And my brother..." Sherlock sighed softly. "...He sends you."
"Because he knows about our connection. He knows I could bring you back." John found a wall to glare at and Sherlock turned back to the hostage. As he did he noticed the laser burning into the man's forehead and jumped forward just in time to be hit by blood and brains alike as the sniper bullet pierced the hostage's forehead.
"No!" He yelled, and John had to tackle him to the ground to keep the second bullet from hitting him. It struck the opposite wall in an explosion of wood.
"It's a miracle you're still alive with your self destructive tendencies." John growled into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock's body ached. I'm getting old. He thought bitterly.
"Delphine is covering her tracks." He said. "She knows I'm getting close."
"Delphine?" John asked.
"The leader of the French gang "L'orage rouge"." Sherlock crawled to the window to make sure the coast was clear. "They'll be following us now, we have to go."
He took John's hand and pulled him to his feet. "There should be a backpack under my desk. I had it prepared in case I needed to go fast. Grab it."
John followed his orders as Sherlock made double sure the sniper had gone. Then together they ran down the derelict stairs. They left the building, ducking into the shadows to remain unseen.
"Where are we going?" John asked, and when he saw Sherlock's coat flapping in the wind he felt a thrill of nostalgia.
"Not now, they could be listening." Sherlock hushed him. Soon enough, though, John saw an entrance to the metro. They got on a train and Sherlock collapsed like a balloon that's been deflated.
The train was mostly empty except for a sleeping drunkard. John chalked that up to the current late hour, which was lucky.
"This way we stay on the move, but can still make our plan." Sherlock explained, as he did so he began unbuttoning his shirt. John looked at him quizzically until he saw the bloodied bandages that were clumsily tied around his shoulder.
"When did you get that?" He asked, wincing in sympathy.
"Two days ago, knife fight." Sherlock told him, wincing because of real pain. He gestured for the backpack and John handed it off to him. Sherlock began tearing the bandages away in a clumsy attempt to change them. John rolled his eyes.
"You are hopeless. Sit still." He unzipped the backpack and located the first aid kit and spare bandages. His hands went to work instinctively while Sherlock tried not to show he was in pain. He distracted himself by explaining the situation to John.
"L'orage rouge is a terrorist organization. They're trying to take control of the city from it's underworld." He began. "Their leader is Delphine Baudin, a sociopath...I am afraid she holds something of a grudge against me."
"Because you're trying to put her behind bars?" John asked.
"Because I refused to rule with her." Sherlock hissed at the sudden pain as John's hands slipped from shock and poured more antiseptic than he'd meant to on the injury. "But I know what she's planning next, just not where. She wants to make a name for herself now that she's gathered her forces, so she's going to blow up one of Paris's major landmarks in full view of a couple thousand tourists and civilians. I need to know which one, which is why I went out and used myself as bait to catch myself a hostage."
"So what do we do?" John asked, bandaging Sherlock back up. His fingers lingered longer than they needed to, running over Sherlock's pale skin. He swallowed heavily and pulled back, giving in only to the temptation to button Sherlock's shirt back up for him.
"We get some rest, and in the morning we'll investigate." Sherlock sighed. "I am actually quite tired, surprisingly." He leaned back in his chair. He pawed about in the backpack and pulled out a long black box. He withdrew from it a syringe and a bottle of some liquid that John suspected was the aforementioned sedative.
"Sherlock...do you know that one of the side effects of depression is oversleeping?" John mentioned casually.
"Did you know a side effect of idiocy is keeping your mouth open and your opinions known?" Sherlock replied, but John still reached forward and took the syringe away, packing it back in its box and throwing it into the backpack.
"Not a sleeping pill kind of guy?" He asked.
"It felt more familiar this way." Sherlock admitted. "My break from chemical addiction may not have been as clean as I led you to believe."
"Yeah, I figured." John rolled his eyes again, he felt like they wouldn't stop rolling that night if he had to keep putting up with Sherlock. He'd really missed that.
...missed it?
"Natural sleep. You know, so you'll actually hit REM sleep and not suffer some sort of mental damage?" John commanded him with a sarcastic tone.
"If you insist." Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around himself and lay his head on John's shoulder. The doctor stiffened.
"Sherlock." He whispered, and the detective pulled back.
"Yes?"
John looked over his old friend's face. His hectic lifestyle and the five or so years in which John had not seen him had clearly taken a toll on the detective. He looked rough to say the least.
"I don't know where we are now." He told him. Sherlock considered the statement and shook his head.
"Well...where would you like for us to be?"
"I don't know..." John looked at his feet. Way back before he'd married Mary, back right before Sherlock faked his own death, he'd confessed his love to the detective only to get rejected. Sherlock had given him a cold stare and said he could never feel love for anyone, and that they had no future together.
Of course John didn't know that Sherlock already knew he was going to have to leave him for a very long time, and he didn't know that Sherlock had loved John much longer than he'd care to admit and was afraid to let himself love him.
"I'd like to start at friends." John sighed. Sherlock gave him a doleful look but acquiesced, laying back against the seat and shutting his eyes. John did the same, and before long he was asleep.
"John."
The ex-soldier woke up to Sherlock's face above his. He still wasn't used to the near-beard that his friend had grown...or rather completely neglected to shave. It wasn't a bad look but it did cover up those cheekbones...
"We're getting off here. There's a hotel nearby, I trust you have money?" Sherlock shoved the backpack into John's hands and then exited the train, giving John just enough time to exit it as well before the doors shut behind them.
"Yes, I have money." John glared. "Somehow I missed that rude way you make me do everything."
John did end up paying for the hotel room, and as soon as they closed the door Sherlock grabbed his backpack and headed for the bathroom. He came out again a few minutes later completely shaven and with the grime washed from his skin.
"I have a plan." He told John.
"Glad you got rid of the beard, that really wasn't working for you." John mentioned, hoping to get a little revenge for a previous argument the two had had about facial hair. The humor was not lost on Sherlock, who smirked.
"I think it was working for me. Unlike your horrendous mustache, people actually liked my beard." He replied. John knew that Sherlock could be as vain as a teenage girl about his looks, he'd seen him spend hours on his hair before.
"Okay, I will admit it worked...in a sort of rough kind of way." John shrugged.
"So you did like it." Sherlock's eyes gleamed and John found himself blushing.
"What?"
"You were looking at my face quite often, at first with a confused look but soon with one of..."
"Alright. Stop. Yes, I liked the beard, you looked very mature now shut up and tell me about this plan of yours." John blushed further and rubbed at his temples.
"I am going to have our terrorist come to us." Sherlock replied, and John tilted his head to the side.
"How are you going to do that?"
Sherlock went to work. He pulled a phone out of the backpack and motioned for John to remain silent. Then he dialed a number, set it to speaker and placed it on the nightstand. Whoever he called did not take long to answer.
"Ah, mon cher. Vous attendu un long temps à téléphonez moi."
"Je était tres occupé." Sherlock replied, his voice bored.
"I think your friend would prefer we speak so he can understand, no?" The woman on the other end of the phone chuckled. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John felt surprised as well.
"Do not be alarmed. You almost lost me, be proud of that." The woman, Delphine, John assumed, chuckled. "But not for long. You might want to tell your soldier friend to keep his gun in his pocket, if he tries anything we'll kill the both of you."
"What is she talking about?" John asked, still wondering who the hell kept their archenemies on speed-dial. While he was wondering, a hulking man dressed all in black kicked down the door.
John reached for the gun in his pocket but Sherlock slapped his hand away.
"What the hell?" John cursed, swinging around so he could argue to Sherlock's face, but the detective forced John's hands into the air. Five more men filed in through the door, armed with impressive guns. Two of them approached the detective and his partner and in unison slammed the butt of their guns into their heads until they fell into unconsciousness.
"So then why confess? Did the cocaine destroy your brain? Did you think I'd leave my wife for an old flame that turned me down?"
"John...just go back to her. I'm sorry. Just go."
...
"Sherlock, I'm in love with you."
"I could never feel that way about anyone, John. You know that better than most, don't you?"
Sherlock groaned, though he didn't know if that was because of the bruise on the back of his head or the memories of his idiotic response to John's confession. He tried to move his hands but found they were tied behind his back. He was laying on the floor, only his hands bound, a pair of high heeled boots directly in his line of vision.
"Bonjour, mon cher."
Sherlock twisted and turned and finally managed to crane his neck at the right angle to see Delphine's angular face looking down at him. Her dark hair was hanging past her shoulders, pin straight. She was dressed all in black leather, and all the men around her wore black as well.
They were in some sort of factory, most likely condemned. It was probably where Delphine had begun building her organization all those months ago when he'd first begun chasing her.
"Et bonjour à vous, ma chérie." He replied, coughing slightly. He just knew John would have something to say about his smoking habits affecting how impressive he appeared before criminals. Speaking of... "Où est John Watson?"
"He is here. Not for long, though." Delphine gestured to where her men were holding John.
He looks rather pissed... Sherlock thought wryly. Probably because I didn't let him empty his gun into these idiots.
"Ah, John." He said. "Have you figured out the plan yet?"
"Get ourselves kidnapped?" John asked, struggling slightly against the beefy men that were holding him. "So you can flirt with some French woman with a dominance fetish? ...Wow, you know you really do have a type, don't you?"
Sherlock tried to ignore John's comment about his attraction to various dominatrices, soldiers, and power hungry terrorists. Though honestly he didn't know if John was mostly referring to Irene Adler or himself. Come to think of it John was quite dominant wasn't he?
Focus, you idiot.
Sherlock shook off the images of John and went back to dealing with the problem at hand. "A type? You must have me all figured out. Just like I have her all figured out."
"You know nothing of me." Delphine sighed. "That is the problem. You could have known everything and helped me to wipe this world clean of the greedy men who rule it. We could have owned everything ourselves and made all others to suffer."
"I don't want to own anything." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I want to get high, solve murders, and shag my best friend. World domination is not on the list." He gave her a snarky grin, which clearly infuriated her. She drove a high heeled boot into Sherlock's stomach, driving the air from his lungs. He coughed and wheezed and tried to recover.
"John...try to...think...what is my plan?" He asked.
John gave him a look of disbelief.
I cannot believe he's trying to show off. Now of all times. Then he thought again. I can't believe he's talking about shagging me now of all times. I tried to get that son of a bitch to talk about his romantic life for years and now that we're stuck in a room with a murderous sociopath he thinks it's a good time!
"You're trying to figure out where the bombs are?" He hazarded a guess.
"Wrong. I really thought you'd do better than this." He laughed, and Delphine kicked him again.
"What are you raving about, bâtard?" She yelled.
"I have a type, right, John?" Sherlock asked. "People who love power? Well what would a power hungry woman do with a few tons of explosives? She'd blow them up of course. All by herself. Which means that the trigger is in this room somewhere, am I right?"
Delphine's eyes widened and then she laughed. "Very good, mon cher. But how do you propose to stop me? You are tied up and you have no idea where the trigger is."
"Well that's where you're wrong you see..." Sherlock pulled his hands free of the rope and pushed himself up into a standing position. He opened his hand for her to see where he'd hidden a small blade in his sleeve. "Someone who intends to be kidnapped doesn't allow himself to be kidnapped very well.
"Arrêter le prisonnie!" One of the men shouted, but John was making his move as well. He elbowed one of his captors in the ribs and swung his leg out to kick the legs out from underneath the other one. Sherlock grabbed one of the fallen men's guns and aimed it at Delphine. Seeing their boss in the line of fire got the thugs to stop where they were.
"I also know where the trigger is, by the way." Sherlock sighed and calmly cut the ropes that bound John's hands, and then handed the gun off to him. Then he walked over to Delphine and calmly reached a gloved hand down her jacket to where the trigger was resting, pressed in between her chest and her bra.
"The problem with both of us, ma chérie, is that we both like showing off too much." Sherlock walked back over to John's side. "It's over."
"Maybe this battle is over." Delphine shrugged. "But I have still won. My men could kill you whenever I feel like giving the order, they would kill you whether you shot me or not so you have no hostage. You are still my prisoner and I could take that trigger back whenever I wanted."
"So what's stopping you?" John asked curiously.
"Well..." Delphine laughed. "I enjoy this game too much to kill off the second player so quickly. I will go now, Monsieur Holmes. Until we meet again." She smiled, her teeth looking as dangerous as the teeth of a wolf, before barking orders at her men in French. Slowly and reluctantly the black-clad thugs filed out of the building with Delphine at their head, a sort of strange parade.
"She...just let you live...and let you win?" John asked, breathless.
"Moriarty did as much the first time we met by the poolside." Sherlock examined the trigger. "People like me, John...they don't want to win. They want to be challenged. Now come on, we have to inform the authorities that we have no idea where these bombs are."
Sherlock sighed and lay down on the bed. He felt exhausted, he couldn't remember the last time he slept. He certainly hadn't slept on the train ride to nowhere, how could he with John right next to him breathing softly and looking so confused?
I should consider myself lucky. Sherlock thought, closing his eyes. He came back to me. Most people don't do that. Even if he never loves you ever again, at least he will always be there. At least he will always come back.
"So how long is it going to take you to grow that beard back?" John asked with a bit of a grin.
"I didn't like the beard, it itched." Sherlock groaned. "I only had it because I was too busy to shave it off."
"Well I liked it." John mused. "I think I'll wait until you grow it back to kiss you for the first time."
Sherlock started, it felt like his heart had leapt into his mouth. "Excuse me...?"
"You heard me, "mon cher". John chuckled, taking a seat on the bed next to where Sherlock lay.
"Your accent is atrocious." Sherlock wrinkled his nose and John promptly kissed it, leaving Sherlock red and confused. Somehow he could convince a terrorist to turn around and walk away without breaking a sweat but kissed on the nose by John Watson and well...all emotional reactions aside the physical reactions were actually quite troubling and quite obvious.
"So you were talking about shagging me earlier?" John asked with a wink.
"I see you've decided where we stand, then." Sherlock coughed, though this time it wasn't because of the smoking.
"I decided when you grabbed my hand and ran with me out of that awful place you were living in." John shrugged. "I just didn't want to admit it to you. I thought maybe it would do you some good to be rejected again."
"You arsehole."
"Sod."
"Idiot."
"Complete jackarse."